


Silver Strings

by deerna



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hair Washing, M/M, Massage, Missing Scene, Pre-Slash, Scars, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22619185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerna/pseuds/deerna
Summary: Geralt comes to Oxenfurt to sell scrap metal, and stays to see Jaskier perform. He doesn't get to leave. Not yet.“No, I’m just... going,” Geralt finishes, lamely, gesturing. “Back on the Path.”Jaskier gapes at him. “You know it's the middle of the night, right?”Geralt pats the bag at his side, feels for his last Cat potion. His very last potion. “I can see in the dark. The blizzard shouldn't hit for another couple hours or so—”“I know you can, butRoachcan't! Stop mistreating that poor horse—hold up, you cansmell blizzardsnow? Don’t answer.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 65
Kudos: 504





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first fic in a fandom is always a struggle — find the character voice, check you're not taking too many liberties with the canon and the lore, find a balance between the different sources — but it also brings a wind of excitement.
> 
> So have this thing, inspired by the very real Player Experience TM of collecting scrap from every single bandit you kill on your way just to speed travel to the nearest city and sell the crap out of it. Toss a coin to your witcher, you god-damned blacksmith.
> 
> Many thanks to [sidhedcv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidhedcv/pseuds/sidhedcv),[rosewrought](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewrought) and [xxhhunter](https://twitter.com/xxhhunter) who held my hand while I struggled with writing <3
> 
> Hopefully I'll manage to post the next part (where all the bed sharing & bath related tags will be relevant) before next week

Sometimes there’s monsters, sometimes there’s coin, and sometimes there’s scrap metal, in the form of piles and piles of discarded weapons, around the carriages assaulted by ghouls. After all, necrophages eat the dead, not their belongings. It’s really not witcher work, but even a witcher has to eat somehow.

“You’ll lame your horse, if you keep doing this,” the smith grumbles, when Geralt drops the saddlebag filled with swords, daggers and parts of armor on the counter. “It’s what, the third time this week?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. “Couldn’t bring all of it in one trip.” Besides, Roach can take it. “How much?”

The man doesn’t answer for a long time, carefully observing and touching every piece . “Crap, all of it, but it’s crap I can melt down,” he drawls finally, holding a dagger close to his eye. “Still, I can’t give you more than three hundred crowns.”

Geralt grits his teeth. “Four hundred.”

The smith glowers. “Three hundred and fifty, and I don’t want to see you again until next season, at least.”

“Four hundred,” Geralt insists again, thinking of his tattered armor in need of repairs, his depleted potions, the smell of upcoming blizzard that filled his nostrils as he rode through the fields towards Oxenfurt.

The man tsks and pulls the scraps behind the counter, pushing them carelessly in a pile. A leather pouch makes its appearance on the rough wood with a brief sound of coins clicking against each other.

"Three hundred and fifty. Take it or leave it, witcher. Go kill some monster or some shit, instead of bothering me.”

Geralt doesn’t move. “Please,” he says, quietly. He’s not above begging, with so little money, so close to winter.

The smith makes a show of ignoring him, but Geralt can hear his heartbeat quicken, can see the gears moving in his head, can taste the fear building up in his sweat. He is probably wondering if the Butcher of Blaviken will kill the smith of Oxenfurt for fifty crowns. Before Geralt can muster the effort of feeling insulted, the man stops pretending to ignore him.

“Okay, fine,” he snaps. “I cannot give you more than three hundred and sixty crowns. I simply don’t have them. But to make up for the difference, I can get you a room to the Silver Strings for a couple nights, at least. Would you be interested?”

Geralt frowns. “The inn?”

The smith nods. "The owner is a friend of mine, owes me a favor. I can give you a letter for him, he’ll let you stay free of charge and give you anything you want to eat or drink. Take care of your horse, too.”

The offer tempts him. Food that he didn’t have to catch and ale that wasn't old and sour, a warm place to stay at night; the warmth of people milling about, living their lives, fighting their fights. Roach could use the time to rest, too. He had really overworked her, these days.

The smith writes a few smudged lines on a piece of parchment and pushes the letter in his hand together with the pouch of coins, threatening him with empty words about seeing him again too soon and shooing him out of his shop.

The Silver Strings is a building on the corner a couple streets over, bigger than Geralt expects, painted in a bright robin egg blue. A silver sign hangs over the door, visible even in the dimming light, a lute and a laurel embossed in its shiny metal surface. It’s getting darker outside but people are still loitering outside the door, talking animatedly among themselves, so distracted by their own chatter they don’t even notice him arrive.

Inside is warm and loud and packed with people gathered around the stage, where a group of musicians is playing a bright song. The familiar smell of spilt ale and unwashed humanity assaults Geralt’s nostrils. He has to push his way through the crowd to reach the counter, and to ignore the whispers that immediately start spreading in his wake; he instinctively tucks the leather of his bag closer against his body and lowers his head.

“I’m looking for Stjepen,” he says when he’s finally next to the counter. It’s almost a shout, to make himself heard over the noise of the other customers, and he has to repeat himself twice before the innkeeper, a towering, burly mountain of a man turns around with a deep frown etched in his rough face.

“You found him.” The man's expression brightens in surprise when he sees Geralt. “Ah, master witcher!”

Geralt blinks at the title, briefly bewildered at the unfamiliar show of respect; then he remembers the note in his pocket, he pulls it out and hands it to him. “I have a letter for you.”

The innkeeper reads the note and swears under his breath. “I _did_ promise he could ask for a room whenever he wanted, but of all the nights that dirty son of a whore could come to collect his debt—! _”_ he grumbles, then he looks at Geralt, apologetically. “I’m really sorry about this, master witcher. I really don’t think I can accommodate you with a room for tonight. You might have noticed there’s quite the full house.”

Geralt smirks dryly at the weak attempt at humour; he noticed alright: between the chatter and the music, he can barely hear his own thoughts. He shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’ll settle for whatever you have to eat, a pint of your strongest ale, and I’ll be on my way. So we can consider both of our debts collected.”

“That I can do.” Stjepan excuses himself with a nod and disappears in the back.

Already regretting his decision, and already missing the blessed quiet of the frozen roads, Geralt sits down and waits. He concentrates on the noises coming from the kitchen, trying to tune out the bustle behind him, but it’s almost impossible, so he ends up focusing on the music coming from the stage instead.

He doesn't know anything about music, but the songs are all fast paced and wordless, with a sort of electric energy infused with anticipation to them. It’s pleasant enough. Someone keeps the rhythm thumping their feet on the wooden floor or clapping their hands; when the song ends the clapping turns messy and scattered, giving way to the buzz of gossip.

“Here’s your food and your drink,” the innkeeper says, coming back with a jug and a dish.

Geralt nods his thanks. “What’s tonight, anyway?”

Before Stjepan can answer, a deafening roar, louder than any of the cheers that there had been until that moment, erupted from the lot behind him. Geralt cannot suppress a pained grimace at the sound.

The innkeeper gives him a dry smirk and just points at the stage, encouraging him to turn around and look.

Dressed in a green-gold shot silk doublet and matching pants, lute and smile polished to a sheen, _Jaskier_ of all people parades himself on the stage, basking in the attention with the delight of a child in a candy shop. He waves and banters and plays with the crowd for a short while, and then he stops on the very edge of the platform and clears his voice.

Silence falls on the mob. It’s suddenly dead quiet, eerie and uncanny. It prickles at Geralt’s senses like the flicker of a sign cast in secret.

Jaskier breaks the spell with a familiar chord of his lute. Everyone starts breathing again.

“I heard... a rumor,” the bard starts, in his normal speaking voice, accompanying himself on the lute as if in song, “that a famous guest has graced us with his presence tonight, Oxenfurt.”

The crowd cheers again, as the bard’s eyes find Geralt’s at the other side of the room. He winks.

Geralt’s mouth twitches. He stops himself from flipping him the bird, and gives a slight nod instead.

Jaskier’s smile widens, and the first lines of _Toss a coin to your witcher_ fall from his lips. It’s as embarrassing as the first time the bard sang it for Geralt years ago—even without all the awkward first-attempt rhymes, and with all the extra verses about some of his newest achievements. He lets the familiar tune wash over him as he eats his dinner and puts a dent in his pint of ale, and if there’s a hint of a smile on Geralt's lips whenever the crowd joins in for the chorus, well. He’s still some definition of human under all those mutations, after all.

At the end of the last chord, the cheer-and-quiet spell repeats itself. The next few songs Geralt recognizes as being local repertoire, traditional tunes that everyone from Oxenfurt knows and loves; Jaskier spends a few words about each song before playing it, adding verses and changing the lyrics every now and then to get a laugh out of the audience, keeping the focus on himself like a magnifying glass in the sun until the very end.

The last two songs are other originals from Jaskier: an unfamiliar ballad about a girl with a heart spun out of silver strings that was clearly composed ad hoc for the evening, and a dirty, funny jig about mistakenly rejecting advances from especially good-looking lovers in increasingly ridiculous ways out of anxiety—one that Geralt definitely heard before from some other bard, in some other inn somewhere, without knowing it was Jaskier's—that has everyone leer and laugh and clap their hands to the beat; and then the performance is over, the bard bows his thanks and gets off stage.

It takes Jaskier a while to wade through the crowd, having to stop now and then to talk to his admirers; when he finally gets close to the counter, the innkeeper already has a pint of ale ready for him.

“Stjepan! Good man.” Jaskier briefly raises his mug in thanks before downing a quarter of it in one go, and sighing in relief. He then turns to Geralt, and his smile is tired but no less bright than before. “Geralt of Rivia, aren't you a sight for sore eyes. What brings you to Oxenfurt? I’d love to presume that you came to see little old me on the opening night of my little homecoming show to encourage and support me, but I’m pretty sure you didn't even know that Oxenfurt was my hometown before this very moment, did you? Besides you never liked my music.”

Geralt feels slightly buzzed because of the ale—the innkeeper has been refilling his jug without him asking the whole evening; warm and full for the first time in weeks, he just laughs and shakes his head. “It’s good to see you, Jaskier. Glad to see that you’re not forced to stuff bread down your pants in order to survive, not anymore.”

“Ha! Not in Oxenfurt, at least. Should’ve seen me last month in Maribor. I’ve cleaned so many leftovers off the tables I’m pretty sure people thought I was doubling as a maid to make ends meet.”

He mimics sneakily stealing a bite off Geralt's plate while singing the chorus to _Toss a coin_ with a full mouth, and Geralt snorts. “The glamorous life of the vagrant.”

“Indeed, indeed. I do not mind it, though. I always hear interesting things on the road.” He lowers his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “For example, I've heard a tale about a witcher and a Striga in Vizima, a tale I’d really like to know more details about—”

“I’ll show you the scars next time,” Geralt interrupts him, unwilling to ruin a good mood. He drains his jug and stops the innkeeper from filling it up again, getting on his feet. “I need to get going.”

“I’ll walk with you," Jaskier gets up as well. “Are you staying at the Alchemist? Their curfew is bullshit, but I know a maid there—I’m sure she’ll be willing to let you sneak through the backdoor if I ask her nicely—”

“No, I’m just... going,” Geralt finishes, lamely, gesturing. “Back on the Path.”

Jaskier gapes at him. “You know it's the middle of the night, right?”

Geralt pats the bag at his side, feels for his last Cat potion. His very last potion. “I can see in the dark. The blizzard shouldn't hit for another couple hours or so—”

“I know you can, but _Roach_ can't! Stop mistreating that poor horse—hold up, you can _smell blizzards_ now? No, don’t answer,” Jaskier stops him before he can open his mouth, and turns to Stjepan. “You don't have any room to spare? I’m guessing you don't, but I can’t just let him ride at night like that.”

“It’s fine, Jaskier. I’m used to it.”

“That's just the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” The bard takes another sip of ale, sucks on his teeth in thought. “Ha! You could stay in my room—it's the best in the whole inn. It has to be big enough for two people, that's _the whole point of it_ , really. It’s supposed to accommodate the guest artists so they can, ah, meet their admirers, if you know what I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Geralt answers, dryly. “I appreciate it, but—”

“At least stay for another pint? We haven’t seen each other in _two years_ —that’s a long time, for your information. That's no way to treat a friend, Geralt.”

“We’re not friends,” Geralt sighs and sits back down. “One more pint. Just the one, though.”

Jaskier whoops in victory and offers another round to the whole room.


	2. Chapter 2

One drink turns into three. After that, as the night grows darker and the blizzard inches closer, Geralt stops counting, so he doesn’t feel too bad about lying to himself.

The tavern is too warm, the voices around them are too loud, but the edges of his awareness are starting to dull and melt in the mellow mead; they burn liquid on his tongue and in Jaskier’s slurred laughter, like potions dissolving in his blood.

He’s not leaving tonight.

Between one patron coming to compliment him on his singing and an admirer wishing him good luck for his blooming career, the bard tells him about his adventures and his wandering. Geralt just listens and watches on, as Jaskier’s tales wash over him, inflated and bright like soap bubbles. He keeps drinking, and he smiles.

It’s well past midnight when Stjepan cuts them off and starts shooing people out of the tavern and to their rooms. Jaskier’s farewells have a garbled quality to them when they finally get up from their seats, but when he turns to Geralt his crystal clear eyes are alert and lucid. He’s not more intoxicated than Geralt is.

So, one drink turns into one night.

He lets Jaskier pull him by the arm all the way to his quarters, making a show of dragging his feet; Geralt’s heart isn’t in it, for once too tired and too human to refuse the simple comfort of a warm place to rest. But even as a wordless song of triumph rises from Jaskier’s chest, Geralt is too paranoid and too _witcher_ not to know that he isn’t going to sleep tonight.

As promised, the lodgings are spacious and comfortable, with a lit fireplace taking up most of the wall and a large bed pushed up against the other, the glint of a copper tub in the corner, a desk covered in strips of parchment. Furs and carpets and blankets are artfully strewn all over the place. Geralt hesitates on the threshold of such luxury, albeit small; Jaskier waltzes right in, at home in his silk outfit, his grandiose hand gestures, the Elven king’s lute hanging off his back like a prize.

“So, what do you think? Spending the night with a roof over your head for once! Not that I didn’t appreciate sleeping in the woods with you — cradled by the moon, sheltered by the night, _very poetic_ — but this is nice too, isn’t it?”

“Hm.” It is novel, for sure. In the six month they spent together on the road, they never stopped at the inn, if not for a quick meal.

The witchers of old made their camp out of town, slept or meditated with their backs to the fire, their steel and silver weapons under hand. Ready for the fight. Ready to _kill_. Away from the eyes of men, more chaos than people.

Nobody really followed the old rules anymore, but the nights that Geralt spent inside were still far and in between, often with very specific needs in mind. He had to make every and each coin count; he didn’t have money to spare for pleasure when he could barely afford ingredients for his potions.

He has no reason not to indulge, tonight. His gut still feels heavy with steel.

“Come on, get comfortable! Should I call a bath for you? I had one yesterday before going to bed and it _really_ hit the spot, I slept like a baby. At least put _that_ down, would you?” Jaskier huffs, gesturing at Geralt’s pack.

Geralt’s hand instinctively tightens around the straps of the bag, the swords jangling against each other for a moment, then he relaxes. It’s _Jaskier_. The bard knows better than to try and take his gear from him.

“It’s fine,” he grunts, and drops the pack next to the desk, feeling strangely off balance empty-handed. He’s probably more tired than he thought, even with the liquor’s influence finally wearing off. “It’s late. We can just sleep.”

Jaskier clears his voice. “Actually, here’s the thing. Now that we’re away from the stench of ah, _humanity_ , I can smell _you_ pretty well—and I would love making a bawdy joke about that in any other circumstance, but it’s really not a good smell. Is that _corpse_ , Geralt? Why do you smell like _literal death_?”

Geralt frowns and sniffs at his shirt. Ah.

“Rooting around necrophages’ nests would do that.” He shrugs. Even with his sensitive nose, he just stopped paying attention to the scent after a while. “You get used to it.”

“Right.” Jaskier pinches his nose between two fingers and sighs. He takes a moment to get the lute off his shoulders and lay it down on the bed, its neck against one of the pillows like one would with a precious lover, and he makes his way past the door. “Don’t move.”

He’s out and back before Geralt can tell him anything, half a dozen bleary eyed servants carrying several jugs of steaming water in tow. Geralt pretends to check something in his almost empty pack so he doesn’t have to look as they work to drag the tub next to the fireplace and fill it.

“I could’ve waited until morning, there was no need to bother anyone,” he mutters to Jaskier, when they have left.

“Oh, I’m sure _you_ could have. I’m not so sure about _myself_.” The bard gives him a pointed look, and starts picking at the lacing on his doublet.

As he fiddles with the tiny buttons, the light from the fireplace catches on the shimmery silk; he finally manages to unclasp them, revealing a pale gold undershirt underneath. “What are you waiting for? Take off your clothes and get in there, before it cools down.”

Geralt clenches his jaw and turns to the tub, shedding his armor as he goes. The studded leather makes a weird, padded noise as it drops against the plush carpet that covers the floor; he hesitates before stripping his boots, shirt, pants off.

Is Jaskier watching him?

Feeling on edge, fighting the urge to expand his senses to track Jaskier’s movements behind him, he takes a deep breath, shoves the rest of his clothes out of the way and climbs in the bath.

The warmth of the water is an immediate relief to his fatigued body; a sigh escapes his lips as he perceives the tension start leaving his muscles. He’s definitely more tired than he thought; it would be so easy to just curl up, close his eyes and _let go_. He needs to meditate, to center himself.

“Well, that _almost_ looked like a relaxed expression.”

Geralt doesn’t startle, because a witcher’s control over their reactions is better than that; he opens his eyes, and finds Jaskier half-standing, half-sitting against the edge of the tub, arms crossed over his chest and a gentle but smug smile on his face.

“Feeling better yet?”

A grunt as an answer. Geralt gathers some water in his hands and splashes his face with it, more to wake himself up than with any intent to wash. A bar of soap appears in his field of vision, way too close for comfort, but Geralt still takes it, wrinkling his nose at the sudden, herbal smell. It lathers quicker than he’s used to, but the scent has some familiar notes in it: mint and lavender and olive oil.

“It sort of smells like that salve of yours, doesn’t it? I immediately thought of you when I smelled it,” Jaskier comments, rolling the sleeves of his undershirt to his elbows, revealing surprisingly well-toned forearms. “Anyway, how long were you planning on staying?”

“I wasn’t,” Geralt grumbles, giving the soap back.

“You know what I mean.” Jaskier waves him off. “You still haven’t told me what you were doing in Oxenfurt. It’s _definitely_ not your scene, and I thought you’d be on your way to Kaer Morhen by now. Isn't winter a witcher’s off season or something?”

“Or something,” Geralt mutters noncommittally, rubbing between his toes, up his calves, behind his knees.

It had been a bad season; too few contracts, too meager rewards, too much wasted time and resources. He wandered in the autumn rotting warmth until winter came nipping at Roach’s hocks, and then it was too late to get on the road. Not without potions or food or coin. Vesemir and the guys would understand, but he never likes showing up empty-handed.

A movement in the corner of Geralt’s eyes, reaching behind his back. “Don’t touch me,” he snaps, hackles up, before Jaskier’s hand can graze him.

“Alright!” Jaskier yelps, immediately displaying both hands. He’s got a copper pitcher full of water in his right grip, and what looks like a very small oil vial in the other. “I was just—”

He doesn’t actually know what Jaskier meant to do, but it doesn’t matter. He reaches up to free his hair from the tangled tie that keeps it out of his eyes, and dunks his head under the water.

When he comes up, Jaskier is staring at him with a concerned frown on his brow, pitcher pulled close against his chest, teeth worrying at the skin of his thumb. From this angle, even with the tremulous light from the fireplace, his eyes look liquid and almost colorless.

“Uhm,” the bard says, hesitates, and doesn’t finish.

Geralt immediately hates it. He doesn’t know how to fix it. He goes back to wash himself, methodically scrubbing every inch of his skin, staring at the water as it grows murky. A faint smell of corpse still clings to his hair; he pushes the wet length of it out of his face, awkwardly wringing the liquid from the drenched strands. He doesn’t know how to fix it and he _hates it_.

Jaskier clears his voice. “Do you ah, need help with that?”

When Geralt looks up, he’s holding out the vial and the pitcher. “I swear I won’t touch you, I just—you apply the oil and I rinse it out, how about that? No touching. Maybe more soap, first?”

He fetches the same bar as before and Geralt accepts it, a silent nod of thanks, an apology clenched between his teeth. He lathers up again, washes his hair with stiff fingers, keeping an eye on Jaskier, who has a nervous smile on his face.

“Tell me when you’re ready to rinse, okay?”

Geralt nods again, tilts his head so that Jaskier can pour. The water from the pitcher is clean and cool; it washes the suds away and clears Geralt’s mind. He watches Jaskier’s careful expression as he works, his hand hovering along Geralt’s hairline without ever making contact, not a drop going the wrong way.

“What’s the oil for?”

“Oh! It just smells nice. It’s supposed to be relaxing, having your hair smelling nice, and I figured you deserved to relax a little, yeah?” He stops pouring and gets the vial out of his pocket, hands it to him.

Geralt’s gut feels tight. Jaskier is _safe_. “My hands are wet,” he murmurs, gesturing to his hair. “Go ahead.”

Behind him, Jaskier lets out a breath Geralt didn’t realize he was holding. There’s a faint _pop_ as the vial is uncapped, a brisk rubbing of skin against skin as the oil is warmed between his palms, and then the bard’s fingers are in his hair, gentle and soothing as they dig in Geralt’s scalp, focusing behind his ears and at the nape of his neck. He pulls a little at the strands as he’s spreading it along the length, and it itches a little, but in a pleasant way.

“Is this alright?” Jaskier asks in a low voice, making eye contact.

It feels like a weird question, given the context; Geralt doesn’t know what to say back; he fears that any answer would be too honest.

When he and Jaskier travelled together, they washed themselves in freezing cold streams in the middle of the woods, as quickly as they could; having your teeth chatter from the cold wasn’t conductive to conversation, deep or otherwise. There was no room for any kind of vulnerability, for _intimacy_ but here—

He makes himself close his eyes. “Fine,” he grunts, finally.

Jaskier hums under his breath and keeps rubbing away.

“You have such nice hair and you spend most of your time mucking it up with entrails and blood and Melitele only knows what else,” he muses, gathering it in both hands and pulling it back, like he’s trying to tying it up in a topknot. “Time to rinse, again. Tilt your head back for me?”

Geralt obeys, following Jaskier’s touch easily. His hair feels weirdly slick and soft against his skin, but the smell of corpse is gone, banished to the water.

Jaskier runs his fingers through it one last time and gives a satisfied hum that resonates all the way down Geralt’s spine.

“Come now, let’s get you out of there or you’ll turn into a prune and you’ll start reeking again—of dirty bath water this time. That would be defeating the purpose of getting you to bathe in the first place, wouldn’t it?”

Geralt nods and pulls himself on his feet, the cooling water sluicing down his body making him shiver just so. He accepts the towel that Jaskier hands him and dries himself off, giving a quick rub to his hair before wrapping it around his hips.

He ignores the mess of puddles he makes on the carpet as he steps out of the tub, but he can’t overlook the pieces of armor still strewn over the floor, dirty and neglected. He gathers them and wipes them down quickly with a rag, paying no mind to the gashes and the worn-out scuffs, before going through his pack, looking for the grease he uses to keep the leather strong and supple.

The jar is empty.

_Fuck_. A clean shirt and pants are about the only things left in his bag, besides the small chest full of barren vials, the crowns he got from the blacksmith, a few treats for Roach and the salve for his scars.

His fingers hesitate on the salve’s jar. He picks it up, unscrews the top and crinkles his nose at the smell of mint, lavender, myrtle petals and arachas blood that wafts up. A thin layer of unguent covers the bottom, just enough for a couple of applications. He dips his finger in it, spreads it on his most recently healed wounds on his arm, his neck, his side.

He has to grit his teeth when he tries to get to a gash on his back—the most recent of them all, the only serious wound he got while he was snooping around the nearby graveyard. It’s between his shoulder blades, almost over his spine, but for all he knows it might be on another plane of existence. A frustrated sound escapes his throat as he forces his tired muscles to stretch beyond comfort, attempting to reach it.

“Oh, that didn’t sound like a good groan,” Jaskier pipes up. “The bath was supposed to relax you, there shouldn’t be room for bad groans. Don’t bother lying to me, I know _all_ your groans—well okay, not, you know, _all_ of them. Regrettably, I might add—but seriously are you okay? Are you in pain?”

“I’m fine—my scars. They get tight, especially when it’s cold out.” He doesn’t feel like explaining that sometimes being a witcher means recovering so fast from wounds that his skin will piece itself back together too quickly, itching with a tightness that won’t loosen up by itself. He said too much already.

“This helps,” he finishes, lamely, getting a little more salve on his fingers, then he looks up at Jaskier, who is staring at him expectantly, a hand planted on his hip and a raised eyebrow.

Geralt sighs, and hands him the jar. “The gash on my spine.”

Jaskier _beams_. Geralt’s back prickles when he sits behind him, but the bard’s hands are as gentle as they were when they were rubbing oil into his hair.

He can barely feel his fingertips where the scar tissue is thicker, where the nerve damage is more serious, but the salve tingles and soothes the itch away almost immediately. “It shouldn’t be dangerous, but it does contain arachas blood so please wash your hands after you’re done,” he murmurs.

“Don’t worry about that. Am I doing this right? Feels okay?” His thumb pushes a little more firmly in the groove beside Geralt’s spine, following the cut upwards.

It’s good. The way his thumb presses down in that spot — the relief feels deeper than when Geralt does it for himself, somehow. “It’s fine,” he says.

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “Your back is awfully tense, you know that? It’s a miracle you can move at all. Should I give you a massage? I have this _lovely_ chamomile oil that is a _wonder_ for tense muscles — I use it all the time.”

A massage. Uncharted territory once again, in this particular context. Geralt swallows thickly against the guilt, against the urge that pokes at his gut, prickles at his palms. He stares for a moment at his emptied out bag, the pile of gear discarded in the corner. “Fine,” he says, dry like a killing blow.

“Excellent! Why don’t you get on the bed as I wipe my hands? I’m not doing this on the floor, my knees are already killing me as it is. How the hell do you manage to stay still like that for so long, anyway?”

The bed looks large and cumbersome in the middle of the room. Geralt gets back on his feet with a fluid motion and climbs on it, a bitter smirk pulling at his mouth. “When your teacher threatens to shatter your kneecaps if you stand before the time is up, and then he _follows through_ , you have all the motivation you need to learn.”

Jaskier chokes on a horrified noise. “Forget I asked.”

The mattress is soft enough to be comfortable, with a pleasant give; when Jaskier drops his weight just next to him it doesn’t feel like a goose down quicksand like certain luxury beds.

A wet sound between a pop and a snap, and then the gentle smell of chamomile. “Lie down on your front, grab a pillow if you like, get comfortable. The point is to _relax,_ remember?”

Geralt follows his instructions, trying to empty his mind, but he finds it hard without getting into _actual_ meditation. This isn’t new but it’s not something he’s used to. It feels a little strange to let Jaskier pour oil in the groove of his spine, to have him run both his hands down his back. His thumbs and knuckles dig in the worst of the knots as if he could read his tension patterns like a map.

It’s distressingly _nice_.

The rush of relief has him bite on an embarrassing sound more than once. Jaskier doesn’t comment on it when he doesn’t succeed at completely stifling it, but his hands slow a little, pressing deeper for a moment. Geralt didn’t realize how much his lower back ached until the pain was _gone_ , banished by the bards fingertips; Jaskier works from the base of his spine up, pouring more oil from time to time, a gentle trickle of coolness on Geralt’s burning back.

“Be a dear and lean up a little so I can get your neck, would you?”

“That’s where the striga bit me,” Geralt rasps, feeling drowsy, as he pushes himself up a little, leaning on his elbows.

Jaskier’s hand stutters, pouring too much oil. “What? Which one?”

Geralt touches the scar absently, the tissue gnarly under his fingertips; he rolls over and then grabs Jaskier by the wrist, placing his fingers in the right spot so he can trace it for himself. “There. The curse was already lifted but she was so frightened—still thought I wanted to hurt her, maybe. I _did_ spend the night throwing silver at her. She was completely feral.”

“ _Human teeth_ did this?”

The bard’s hand trembles a little as he splays it over the scar, gauging its size against his own slick palm. He swallows thickly, eyes tracing up and down the column of his neck and where his fingers are almost wrapped around Geralt’s throat.

“Damn. Holy _fuck_. It feels like she took a chunk out of your _muscle_. How did you even move your neck while this healed?” he says, awe and horror mixing in his voice.

Geralt can almost see verses piecing themselves together in the back of his mind, chords and melodies clashing and intertwining.

“I didn’t. I passed the fuck out. There was this witch who hired me for the job—she healed me.”

He doesn’t tell him he thought he was going to bleed out in that crypt. He doesn’t tell him he ran away from Triss’ care before the flesh had knitted itself together. He doesn’t tell him about the feeling of warm blood seeping through the bandage, making him hot and cold as he rode Roach in the darkness, feeling like he was going to fall off the saddle anytime.

“Well. It seems like _Toss a coin_ will get yet another verse,” Jaskier says, brightly. If the cat who got the cream could speak, it’d probably sound like that; but his skin is clammy and pale, his smile nervous and hesitant, doesn’t reach his eyes.

The moment passes.

“Want to tell me the story of some other scar of yours, since you’re feeling so uncharacteristically chatty tonight?”

Geralt snorts, and goes back to lie on his front. “No.”

“Eh, I had to try,” the bard laments, a long-suffering sigh in his voice.

He goes back to work, fingers working into muscles like he’s trying to knead him in a new shape, like he’s made of clay and not of flesh.

By the time he’s finished, they’re both stifling yawns and Geralt’s body feels liquid. He smothers a groans in the pillow he’s been wrapping his arms around for what seemed a very long time.

He thinks he’s going to regret it, come morning. He’ll wake up completely sobered up and too-well rested, a deep sense of satisfaction in his core; every time he moves he will be reminded of how he spent the night, how _soft_ he’s been. His sense of duty will kick in, and he’ll bristle over, shame in the face of his recklessness and stupidity, and he will pack up his gear, and he’ll storm off—

“How are you feeling?” Jaskier murmurs, so low in his ear Geralt he’s sure his lips must be touching his hair, one last gentle squeeze on his shoulders.

Geralt closes his eyes. “I don’t think I can leave the bed, to be honest.”

“Ha! Resounding success.I told you I was going to get you nice and relaxed. Let’s just get you under the covers, the fire is still going but—” Jaskier trails off, fussily rearranging a few blankets and furs on top of Geralt’s back.

“I don’t understand why you are doing all this for me,” he admits, drowsily.

Jaskier freezes. Then, he lets out a sound that should be a laughter but it’s so choked up it could be a cough or a sob. “All I’ve seen of you in the past two years is your shadow in the townfolk’s tales, and when you finally show up in the flesh is in the _last_ place I could’ve expected, looking like _hell_ and smelling _worse_.”

_That’s a witcher’s life_ , Geralt wants to tell him, but Jaskier isn’t done.

“I know I’m probably a blip in the sea of your memory—six months aren’t probably enough to make a dent in your brain—but you’re not, in mine. You’re different from anyone else, you’re not— People have _thoughts_ about witchers, you know that, I know that. But _what I know, that people don’t, is_ that you go out of your way to help those in need, those who _really need it_ , even if it’s not glamorous, even if it doesn’t sound good enough for a ballad, even if it’s stupid dangerous, even if you don’t get coin out of it. Which should be the whole fucking point, you doing things for coin, shouldn’t it? Sweet Gods I’m rambling again,” he mutters, voice quieting. “The point is — I’m doing this because I like you and I care about you. You’re a good person and your life is rough as _fuck. Y_ ou deserve nice things sometimes, even if those things are just a hot bath, a relaxing massage and a comfortable bed to sleep in, and if I’m the one giving those things to you—well, that’s me being selfish so deal with it.”

The shifting of Jaskier’s weight on the mattress as he gets up, the rustle of cloth as he finishes to undress himself, the sound of the lute being carefully put aside on the floor fill the silence for a long moment, before the bard lets himself drop on the other side of the bed to properly slide under the covers beside him.

To be perfectly honest, Geralt still doesn’t understand; but his body is clean because of the bath, his hair smells nice, his scars don’t pull and itch anymore and his skin feels hot because of the massage. He glances over, sees Jaskier lying with the back to him, curled up under the covers like a fawn hiding under a pile of dead leaves.

“Thank you,” he rasps out.

Jaskier visibly unclenches and rolls over to face him, a small pout on his face. He looks smaller with his head laying on the pillow, and Geralt suddenly remembers how _young_ he is, full of hope and life and thirsty for adventure, bursting with that _hunger_ that normal people have and that witchers have been taught to smother and suffocate. He looks still a little strained, a little hurt, maybe.

“I didn’t want to sound ungrateful, I—” Geralt continues, and then stops. He licks his lips, looking for the words. He’s not Jaskier, but he listens to him. “I’m just—I’m not used to this. You’re different from anyone else, too.”

The bard’s eyes are dark and wide in the dimness, his figure backlit by the fireplace. His jaw drops a little. A small grin lights up his face, tension draining from his features. “Really? I mean, thank you. I mean, you’re welcome. Anytime, really.”

Geralt hums. “Really. Let’s sleep, now. I kept you up enough as it is.”

Jaskier yawns and mumbles something that sounded like agreement, eyelids suddenly heavy. Tension drains from his limbs and just like that he’s out, face slackening in slumber. Like he was waiting for Geralt’s permission.

That level of trust — Jaskier showed it to him from the very beginning and it never fails to make Geralt uncomfortable and touched in equal parts. It’s a different brand of bravery, Jaskier’s, one that Geralt has always been lacking.

The wind picks up outside the shuttered blinders. The blizzard has finally hit the city. Geralt thinks of Kaer Morhen, he thinks of the Path. He still doesn’t know where he’s going to winter, how he’s going to replace his potions, if he’s going East, after all. His future days are full of fog and snow and cold.

Jaskier murmurs something in his sleep, rolls closer. It’s warm.

Geralt closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and sleeps.


End file.
